The spattering of laughter that joined in I took for a good omen. Anything to lighten the somber mood could only be helpful to my cause. Only Andret and Hagan and the knot of conspirators that stood to the king’s right didn’t break a smile. If I proved my innocence today, they would lose esteem in Mark’s eyes and be ever turned against me. Andret, especially, for it was within Mark’s power to name another second in line to his crown after Tristan, whose place Andret hoped to win.
I could almost forgive Andret his ambition except that I had almost burned for it. And might burn still should God fail me today.
The hound, of course, I trusted implicitly.
For almost an hour he patiently pointed to objects named by the king such as tree and stone, man and woman, and brought him a shell from the shore, a flower from his courtyard and a cup from the kitchens. He rolled over, barked out the answer to ‘two plus four’, put nose to the pilgrim’s hand when asked, ‘Who saved Yseult from a fall this day?’, pointed to the bishop when asked, ‘Who here is a man of God?’ and to me when asked, ‘Who gave you power to understand men’s speech?’.
He faltered only once when Mark asked, “Who here does Yseult love the most?”
“He’s not an oracle to see into hearts and souls,” I chided.
But the hound sat, raised his paw and licked it with an air of pride.
The king chuckled along with the onlookers. “Well, I suppose it’s true you do love the hound more than any other today. He has been exemplary in this ordeal. I say we’ve seen miracle enough. Do any doubt that this hound speaks for God? Do any doubt God has affirmed Yseult’s innocence this day?” He stared pointedly at Andret who met the king’s demand stare-for-stare with jaw clenched and a determination that unnerved me. None of us had forgotten the night Tris and I had been caught, naked and together. Yet in the presence of such damning evidence, God had upheld my innocence.
If he challenged, Andret would face his own ordeal. Confronted with what he’d seen today, did he have the courage to challenge? I held my breath as he debated the risk.
It wasn’t even a question of who was right but who held more power. In bed, Mark was gravely disadvantaged. Under his crown, however, he was a potent king. He’d faced the wrath of Ireland and had won. Andret stood no chance. In the end, I almost missed the imperceptible shake of his head as he refused challenge.
What I did see clearly was that even in setback he lost no ounce of arrogance, nor did he let go of anger. He had been thwarted but not defeated. He would remain an enemy to our happiness—perhaps yet to our lives.
“A hound has once again saved you from the fire, My Queen.” Mark stressed the last, so no one could misconstrue the judgment.
“And what of Tristan?” I reminded. “Will you receive him back in court?”
“In court and as my heir until you bear Cornwall another,” Mark agreed.
I smiled, satisfied.
Tris would return soon enough to my bed.
All had changed, and yet nothing had.
Had I only known it was all about to…
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
PALOMIDES
Mark draped a proprietary arm over Yseult’s shoulders and led Cornwall’s queen back into her castle to the throaty cheers of the crowd. I had my suspicions they would have cheered just as heartily had she been found guilty and was being led to the flames instead. Men were fickle in their wants and needs, readily swayed and easily appeased.
All but Andret and his cohorts, who glared hate and revenge at the retreating couple—the queen who had bested them and the king who had not bent. It was Tris I worried for most with them, however. So long as Mark lived and Tris stood between Andret and the throne, Tris would remain an open target. They would make life hell for him.
At least what of his life he wasn’t spending in heaven with Yseult. They would have to find another private place—one more secure than the king’s courtyard—to hold their trysts.
I may have won Yseult’s life but I still had not won her. And I knew, soul-deep, I never would.
As hound I fled into Morois Wood, the pilgrim, noticed by none, discreetly following.
As Palomides the knight I re-entered Tintagel at the side of the king’s exonerated nephew, Tristan, a few minutes later.
But it was the fae, Edrun, son of Herne, tired of heartsickness and now longing to be with his pack, who walked the halls of stricken wood and tumbled stone.
That night at supper at the high table where he sat once again beside the queen, Tris whispered a word in Yseult’s ear before joining me at a lonely table where I waited impatient to be gone. “There’s a glade just north of the broodmare’s stable. Meet us there when the bells at Compline ring.”
Us, he’d said. I nodded, then fled the hall, unable to abide its claustrophobic walls, the iron that men wore and ate from, and the scent of stale mead and fresh-milled flour.
My hound waited in the clearing until Tris appeared. Then I shifted easily in front of him in the starlight before reaching for the mid-thigh tunic folded nearby.
His hand on my arm stopped me. “Give me a moment to admire.”
I stood for his pleasure, enjoying the heat that blazed in me wherever his gaze touched. Then he stepped close, wrapping me from behind in his arms, his palms following the trail of heat his eyes had left. I stretched back my neck to receive his kiss even as I filled the tunnel of his fist. He twisted his hips—
—and I pulled sharply away.
“Des!” His stricken voice was filled with hurt. “What—?”
“Your sword.” I snorted when he looked down at himself, his face anxious. “Your other sword. The steel of it burns. Only not so pleasantly as the fire that sword ignites in me.”
“Ah, forgive!” Unbelting his scabbard, he tossed the weapon aside. Then his arms were about me again and I was melting into his embrace when—
“Yseult.” I caught the scent of her well before Tris heard her. “I have no qualms about her finding us—”
“Nor do I,” Tris assured me. “Only… not now. Not yet.” He hurriedly retrieved my tunic and helped me into it.
A pang of regret shot through me. If not now, perhaps not ever.
Yseult swept into the clearing and threw her arms about the both of us, drawing all into an exuberant embrace. “My champions!”
Once there was a time I could have believed in the fantasy of a night that ended in a tangle of the three of us, petty jealousies all laid aside, indulging in the ecstasy of shared hands and tongues and lips. Of a week where we revisited our secret grotto, forgetting all the pain we’d caused each other and celebrating the utter joy we could find in one another. Of a future where I remained, and they became a part of my life forever.
Who knew I could find such power and passion, devotion and contentment in those who were not fae?
Brinn knew, of course; she who had found the same. And what had I done but try to strip it all away?
And Father knew, whose curse had proved a profound blessing that had accomplished so much more than the life-lesson it was meant to teach.
But just as every new love need not be a betrayal to the old, every blessing did not guarantee a happy ending.
How many times could my heart break before it could mend no more?
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
YSEULT
I would always cherish the memory of that last embrace when all the world was right at last and the two things I loved most in it stood solid and real within my arms.
“We could go to Joyous Garde,” Tris whispered into our circle. “Lancelot would welcome us there. Or to Camelot. Arthur has already sworn me a seat at that Round Table of his; perhaps it’s time to fill it.”
“Away from Andret, you mean. And Mark.” I was as anxious to be away from them as Tris.
“Just for a handful of weeks. Besides, it’s a good occasion for the world to meet the new Queen of Cornwall. Mark would not begrudge us solidifying a few alliances.”
I hear
d the wisdom in Tris’ words. A little time, a little distance to safeguard us while tempers cooled. Only… “Des would come with us, of course.” It wasn’t distance I needed—or wanted—from him right now. Especially since Tris had forgiven his wholly. “We could be as we were before, back in my courtyard in Ireland. Before Cornwall and Mark and Andret’s ugly accusations.”
“You mean back when we were all hiding pain and secrets?” Des asked with a gentled voice. “Back before ‘ugly’ became another word for ‘truth’? No. The past is done. It’s to our futures we must now look.”
Fear stabbed my heart, joy leaking away drop by drop the more tender Des’ expression became. Why did have to look so beautiful? Ill news deserved a vessel to match, not the startle of emerald eyes, the fine chisel of cheekbones and full, inviting lips to tell it.
Did Tris already know? I risked a glance his way. His eyes on Des widened with the same dawning fear as mine.
“The fae are dying,” Des said. “Man and civilization are driving the Old Magics from the land. The wild isles are being tamed. The end, inevitable, is in sight. No amount of bickering or wars can change that. Hatred and jealousy only savage the land, hastening us to our end. We stand with the new High King, behind his intent and his promise to unite Britain in peace. There is no nobler act, Tris, than accepting the seat that Arthur offers.”
“Camelot it is, then. Arthur’s Table is large, seating only the best knights in arms and honor. Des,”—he did not beg the words but the plea in his eyes was clear—“it would be incomplete without you there.”
I held breath. One miracle more in a season rife with them was surely possible. I knew what I wanted wasn’t fair, but mine was a selfish heart. It held room enough for husband, lover and…Des. So special a place he held, language had no word or him, for what he was to me, to Tris.
Des shook his head once, a delicate gesture that alone crushed hearts and hopes and dreams. “I am no longer man nor knight. I belong to the world of fae.”
No! I couldn’t lose Des. Not now when I had just regained everything. I loved him too much, and so I chose the weapon I thought would bring most pain. “Brinn was fae, yet she had the strength to turn away. Does she have more courage than you?”
“Brinn will always be lost between worlds. But she could choose as she did because hers was a requited love, matched heart for heart. Alain and Pel put no others before her the way you have put Tris before me. You have only to tell me you love me that much—equal to the man who stands beside you to hear it too—and I will stay. Nay, I will more than stay. I will sit at Arthur’s right hand and forge alliances in your honor and build temples to your glory. I will worship you in the dark and we will sing together in starlight. Do you love me enough?”
He faced Tris. “Do you?”
Love for Des overwhelmed me—solid, complete and turning on the point of pain so sublime mere passion could not encompass it. And yet it was not enough—would never be enough—to hold him at my side. Not so long as Tris was there before him.
Tris, so brave in all else, refused to meet the question—the challenge—Des threw down.
We both wanted him, needed him—that was soul-true and without doubt. Nor was there any question about how much he wanted and needed us in kind.
Our fates, though, had been sealed from the first taste of Isolde’s potion on our lips.
“Love’s doom,” I whispered, and they nodded in despair.
“Where will you go?” I asked.
Always full of surprises, Des had one more. “To Brinn. I have apology to make to her—and to Alain too, the man she chose. She and he would have borne a child at high summer. I think now I could bear to see it. See them. Then to my father and my pack, to run once again with The Wild Hunt.”
“When will you leave?” Tris asked. Devastation aged his face a decade or more.
“Tonight.”
I shook my head. “No. That’s too soon.”
Des’ gentle smile hung in the night like the setting moon. “Would winter be better? Or perhaps high summer next?”
“Either,” I agreed. “Neither,” I knew.
“Calannog is yours,” he told Tris. “Sword and armor too.”
“I’d rather have you,” Tris implored.
“You already did.”
Tris smirked bravely at Des little joke, but what sad expression he managed made mockery of the attempt. “And I would have you again,” Tris said, his tone sincere. “And again. And again.”
Des cupped Tris’ bearded chin in his hand. “As I would have you. But when? When would you have time or energy? On the days Yseult must lie with Mark? You would grudge me a cold bed six nights of the week while you both warm your beds all seven? No, my heart has already known that grief far too long. And beyond that, beyond you and me, how can I bear to live in the same mortal world as Yseult and yet be with her not?”
“There is another option,” I pointed out quietly, laying a hand on each of their shoulders. I knew it could never be, but it had to be spoken. Just as the secret that Des and I had lain together must still be left unsaid.
I would always treasure the look that passed between the men—desire, respect, challenge. They were as tempted as I to say yes.
And what an easy answer yes would be.
Here in the clearing with the grief of farewelling making us desperate, a simple yes would ease the pain.
But love and jealousy were never made to couple. In proof, my gaze fixed on Tris, I moved the hand on Tris’ shoulder to lay flat against Des’ chest. Raising myself on tiptoe, I upturned my face and parted my lips. Catching my upper arms in his brute grip, Des accepted my invitation, lowering his lips to mine, readily, eagerly.
Already there was a change in Tris even as he fought to accept me in Des’ arms. And this but a simple kiss. I dared further. Des wore only a thin and thigh-length tunic. I let the hand on his chest slide down. He responded immediately, the swell of him hard even through my gowns. Lips still locked to his, I took a half-step away, the better for Tris to see.
I pulled at the fabric of the tented tunic, lifting the hem higher as I moaned around our kiss. Under the loose fabric he lengthened, nudging at my fisted hand.
Tris, his battle with himself already lost, snaked an arm about my waist to pull me away, Des’ grip on me resisting him.
Tugged between, I asked, “Is it possible then? Or would you kill each other before the night was done?”
Madness hinted in the twist of Tris’ face and by the pain of his grip. It flickered in his eyes, darkening the hazeled depths of them.
Another kind of madness pricked at Des. “You rouse me only to abandon me?” He grimaced, his distress evident.
Hero it could be to poke at one angry bear. Only a fool would stir up two.
It had, of course, been a foolish hope. Separate, our loves transcended the glory of heaven itself. Together, it raked the coals of hell.
Now here I stood, caught between two irresistible forces as surely as Odysseus had found himself trapped between Scylla and Charybdis, sea monster and whirlpool. All I had succeeded in was adding yet another layer of despair over the heartbreak of Des’ farewelling.
“This isn’t the memory I had prepared myself to leave with.” The accusation, disappointment and utter ache in Des’ voice robbed me of strength.
Knees giving, I sagged between them, half in surrender, half in supplication. “Nor I.”
“Nor I,” Tris echoed, though madness yet edged his tone.
Des dropped to his knees in front of me. “No games.”
I shook my head.
Behind me, Tris knelt too. “None,” he agreed. The effort to control the jealous demon within him was palpable.
If not for Tris, I would have, willingly and eagerly, given Des the farewell that he deserved—a long, slow night of sighs and gentle caresses ending in a frenzy of delight.
With Tris simmering on the edge of madness, I chose each touch with care, kissing first down one arm of br
awn that held me till he drew it over my shoulders and urged me near. He bent his head, lips brushing the swell of breasts above the neckline of my russet gown. A hand beneath lifted one and then the other for his pleasure.
Tris, an arm still wrapped about my waist, rested his chin on my shoulder to watch. Their foreheads touched as Des’ tongue stretched beneath the ribbon of piping to flick at the peak it concealed.
Sliding the hem of his tunic up, I slipped my hand under, running palm and fingers across the ripples of his stomach before capturing him in the warm circle of my grip.
He gasped.
Behind me, Tris stirred uneasily.
Raising his head from my bodice, Des sought my lips. We kissed, deep, as he filled my hand. When I moved my fingers on him, he grabbed the front of Tris’ tunic and pulled him closer, leaving my lips cold as he took Tris’ in their stead in burning need.
I nipped at his neck and licked at his throat as the slide of my grip grew more insistent.
“Faster,” he begged. Breaths ragged now, he squeezed at my breasts as he plunged his tongue into Tris.
My hand on Des was joined then by another, large and firm and deadly dangerous. Closing over mine it matched the rhythm.
Then Des’ lips were again on mine, the scent and taste of Tris that lingered on them an added aphrodisiac.
Des jerked in our hands. My stomach muscles fluttered. He jerked again, and muscles that remembered him once inside of me clenched in response. When he jerked a third time and fae seed spilled warm across our hands, I groaned in release right along with him, sucking hard at the tongue that stabbed within.
Nuzzling our necks, Tris moaned in concert with us, his arm tightening about me. Through the gown at my back I felt him rigid and ready. “Later,” I whispered, not a rebuke but a promise. I knew Tris understood. This moment was for Des. Tris and I would have our lifetime.
Queen's Heart: An Arthurian Paranormal Romance (Arthurian Hearts Book 2) Page 21
